The Routine
by Mahala
Summary: Sometimes the only way to cope is to have a routine. One Shot.


**The Routine**

There was comfort in routine. There was stability in procedure. There was safety in following protocol. And in a sense there was also desperation. At that moment he needed that routine. He needed more than anything to follow procedure. To be by the book, to go through the motions, to maintain the mask of professionalism and to be seen to follow protocol. Anything to hide his desperation.

He gave her his initial statement, his voice measured and even, with no unnecessary detail or embellishment. He removed the remaining bullets from his gun and handed it over holding it by the barrel. She had looked at him with her cold blue eyes, her lips drawn into a hard line as he had counted out the bullets and confirmed the rounds that he had fired into the man's body. This wasn't the first time they had done this. They went through the same motions, his in deference to hers. She asked the same questions and he gave the responses, not quite the same responses because it was never exactly the same. He waited for her and her colleagues to take pictures of the scene and question the other witnesses. He watched her sweep her ash blond hair behind one ear as she listened to Don, his face pale and serious as he gave his statement. She never made eye-contact but wrote everything in her black-bound notebook snapping it closed smartly as though to ensure that the words would remain engraved there forever. Eventually she nodded in his direction giving him leave to move on.

He made the call to his union representative explaining the circumstances shortly and succinctly before putting the phone back in his pocket. Fellow officers moved around him like unwilling participants caught up in a macabre dance where the movements were fixed but there was no tune other than the drone of traffic from the street at the end of the alley. He didn't look at them and they didn't look at him; he stood immobile, his mind closed off, empty. There would be time to think later. Once the dance had finished and the scene cleared Don drove him back to his office. Their conversation was limited, neither able or willing to talk. Don asked him if he was all right and he answered that he was fine.

Sitting in the glass fish-bowl he called his office, he watched the lab slowly empty at the end of the day, some of his staff leaving exhausted after a hard day's work, some exhilarated by their success, others frustrated by their lack of progress. He filled out the paperwork. He crossed the T's, dotted the I's, put the date and wrote out the hard facts in a neat, precise print finishing it off with his neat, precise signature. He didn't reread it. He didn't need to. Every word was imprinted in his mind.

He rose and put on his coat, and said his good-nights to the few that were left, all the while keeping the mask in place. He dropped the form off on her desk. Her cold blue eyes conveyed nothing as she nodded her thanks. She tucked her hair behind one ear and told him that he should make himself available at nine o'clock sharp the next morning for further questions. She lowered her head with no further words of either comfort or reprimand. He was dismissed. It had been the same the last time.

He made his way home. He walked in an attempt to delay the inevitable but in reality it was part of the routine: the walk home. He didn't notice the late-night revellers laughing at some inane joke, or the drunk in the alley singing mournfully out of tune. He ignored the shouts of encouragement from the kids watching their friend show off his skate-boarding skills. He dismissed the woman offering her services. He walked seeing everything but looking at nothing. He walked hearing everything but listening to nothing, aware of what was around him but apart from it. He nodded a greeting to the super of the building who glanced at the clock on the wall and shook his head at the late hours his quietest tenant kept. He rode the elevator to his floor and approached his door with trepidation knowing he could avoid it no longer. The key turned silently in the lock and he stepped into the dark interior. He didn't switch on the light but leaned back against the door for a few seconds closing his eyes, hoping that this time it would be different but knowing in his heart it wouldn't. He locked and bolted the door.

Hanging up his coat he kicked off his shoes and padded silently through to the kitchen. He pulled out the twelve year old single malt from the cupboard and, grabbing the glass, he poured a scant measure. No more, no less. He carried it through to the mezzanine and placed it untouched, along with his cell phone, on the polished wooden table next to his favourite chair. He didn't sit but dragged himself towards the bedroom and hung up his suit. Clicking on the bathroom light he relieved himself, threw the rest of his clothes in the laundry basket before taking a shower.

He had tried to change this part, sometimes taking a short, cool shower, sometimes standing for minutes at a time under the hot stream of water, sometimes forsaking it for a bath but it didn't seem to make any difference. His arms felt like lead as he dried and wrapped the towel around his waist. He filled a glass with water and drank it before refilling it. He cleaned his teeth. All the while he avoided looking in the mirror.

Pulling on track pants and dragging the cover from the bed he threw himself down and glanced towards the bathroom. He could see the glow under the door where he had left the bathroom light on. He stretched out an arm and pulled open the drawer of the night-stand. He took out the small leather folder and, closing the drawer, he rolled over. He opened it and propped it upright in the folds of the comforter next to the pillow. She had always understood the routine. As he caressed the photograph with his thumb he took comfort in the lop-sided grin, the laughter in her eyes as they looked out at him. He imagined stroking her hair, smelling her scent, holding her in his arms. He knew it was useless to fight it and eventually his eyes closed and for a while he slept.

But the images still came to torment him. The faces. The screams. He could feel the gun heavy in his hand. He could hear himself shout, urging the man to stop, urging him to drop his weapon, to surrender but he knew what was to follow and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. It seemed to happen in slow motion as though to torment him all the more by prolonging the inevitable. He heard himself shout a warning and then he felt it : the moment his finger tightened on the trigger, the way his thumb pressed hard against the grip, the recoil of the gun in his hand. The sharp barks of the shots he fired reverberated in his head and the smell of cordite filled his nostrils. The bile rose in his throat as he saw the blood blossom on the shirt of the man as he fell.

He untangled himself from the covers and dashed towards the light. His fingers gripped the edge of the bowl as he retched emptying what little he had in his stomach. He remained doubled over, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, the tightness in his chest making it hard to draw breath. The only sound he heard was the blood rushing in his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut as the waves of nausea overwhelmed every sensation. After what seemed like hours he managed to stagger to the washbasin. The water felt cool on his burning face. He brushed his teeth with the brush that he left earlier, carefully balanced on the shelf with the toothpaste sitting there in a small neat S on top of the bristles. He rinsed his mouth and drank the water and replaced the glass where he had left it. He still didn't look in the mirror.

Like a sleepwalker dead to the world he headed towards his chair facing the windows. The building opposite was all in darkness. The moonlight bathed the room in a silvery glow. If he had dared to look in the mirror he would have seen that his face was as grey as the track pants he wore. He eased himself into his chair and took a small sip from the scotch cupping the crystal glass in his hands. The burning liquid scorched his throat as he felt it run all the way to warm his stomach and his face lost a little of the grey. He closed his eyes. He wished desperately that she was there. He wished that the earlier take-down hadn't occurred. He wished he hadn't been put in the position of having to shoot the man. The man, a name on a form, now a corpse lying in a steel drawer in the morgue. The man, the perpetrator of a crime, the man who would have taken his life if he hadn't pulled the trigger first. That wasn't any justification. That wasn't any comfort. The man who was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's friend, someone's lover...

He desperately wished that she was there. She had understood. She had sat with him neither judging nor condemning. She had known the routine. She had been the one who carefully lifted the lid on the toilet bowl, left the light on, filled the glass of water and put toothpaste on his brush. She had been the one who had brought him the glass of scotch urging him to take a sip. She had been the one who had sat waiting with him through the early hours watching the sky gradually lighten and the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline while waiting for the call.

He reached for the cell phone as it rang at precisely eight o'clock. Just as he knew it would.

"_Detective Taylor. We will be expecting you at nine o'clock as agreed but I thought you would like to know that we are deeming it a good shoot. The rest is just formality._"

He muttered the pleasantries that were required of him and he put down the cell phone. He closed his eyes for a few minutes allowing the sun to bathe him in it's warmth. He had known all along that was what would happen. There had never been a shadow of a doubt that it was a good shoot but that didn't help. That wasn't any justification. That wasn't any comfort. The man was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's friend, someone's lover... He desperately wished that she was there. But she wasn't.

He forced himself from the chair and showered again, a quick, cold shower. He shaved and dressed. As he attached his pin to his lapel and wiped a trace of shaving foam from his ear he finally looked in the mirror. The mask fell back into place. He'd go through the motions, be asked the same questions, and give the same responses, just the same as the previous time. He'd take the mandatory sessions with the departmental psychologist and reassure his staff, his friends, his family that he was all right. He knew they'd be concerned, asking him if he was okay, glancing at him from time to time when they thought he wasn't looking just to make sure, muttering to themselves that he was one tough sonofabitch, that he was a former marine, the head of the crime lab, that nothing could shake him. He would carry on as usual sitting in the goldfish bowl he called his office, visible to everyone, filling in the paperwork, balancing the budget, approving results, signing off on dossiers, making sure that the New York Crime Lab ran as smoothly as always. Then they would get on with their work, get on with lives and no longer worry about him. He knew that it was all a lie but that was the price he had to pay. Besides he still had the routine.

**The End**


End file.
